Sylvia Andrew (2 page)

Her father had always been a dim figure in the background, especially after Mama had fallen ill and most of her time had been spent in the pretty, airy bedroom with fluttering white curtains and draperies. It was Maddy who had been the child’s companion then, Maddy who had sworn never to leave her young charge.

But, of course, Maddy had been forced to go when Aunt Cassandra dismissed her. Aunt Cassandra, not Grandfather. Francesca’s heart still ached at the memory of their parting. She had clung to Maddy’s skirts, as if she could keep her nurse at Shelwood by physical force, had pleaded with her grandfather, even with her aunt. But Maddy had had to go.

As Francesca grew older, she came to accept the hard truth about her birth, if only because she could not see why her aunt should otherwise invent a tale which reflected so badly on the Shelwood name. The rest of it—that she was poor and plain—was more easily accepted. It wasn’t just what her aunt said—everyone seemed to think that she was very like Miss Shelwood, who was tall, thin and pale, with strong features.

Francesca, too, was tall, thin and pale, and though she didn’t have the Shelwood eyes—the Shelwood eyes were dark brown, and hers were a greyish-green—her hair was very much the same colour as her aunt’s, an indeterminate, mousy sort of blonde. How Francesca wished she had taken after her small, vivacious mother, with her rich golden curls and large pansy-brown eyes, who had always been laughing!

A sudden rumble of thunder quite close brought Francesca back with a start to the present. She glanced up at the sky. The clouds were gathering fast—which direction were they travelling? Then a horn blared behind her and she nearly leapt out of her skin. She turned and was horrified to see a
chaise and four bearing down on her at speed. She leapt for her life to the side of the road, but lost her balance, skidded into the ditch, and ended up in nettles, goose grass and the muddy water left over from the previous night’s rain.

The chaise thundered past, accompanied by shouts from its driver as he fought to bring his team to a halt. At first she made no attempt to move, but lay there in the ditch, content to recover her breath and listen to crisp orders being issued some way down the road. It had taken a while to stop the chaise. Footsteps approached the ditch where she lay and came to a halt beside her.

‘Are you hurt?’ Betsy’s old sunbonnet had tipped forward and covered her eyes, so that all she could see when she looked up was a pair of long legs encased in buckskins and beautifully polished boots.

‘You were well clear of the coach, so don’t try to pretend. Come, girl, there’s sixpence for you if you get out of that ditch and show me that your fall hasn’t done any harm. Take hold of my cane.’

That voice! It was cooler and more authoritative than she remembered. And the undercurrent of mockery was new. But the rich timbre and deep tones were still familiar. Oh, it couldn’t be, it
couldn’t
! Fate would not be so unkind. Francesca shut her eyes and fervently hoped that memory was playing her false. Then the end of an ebony cane tapped her hand, and she grasped it reluctantly. One heave and she was out of the ditch and standing on the road. An exquisitely fitted green coat and elegant waistcoat were added to her vision of the gentleman.

‘You see? You’re perfectly unharmed.’

Francesca was not reassured by these words. She listened with growing apprehension as he went on, ‘There’s the sixpence—and there’s another penny if you’ll tell us if this lane leads to Witham Court. We appear to have taken a wrong turning.’

Francesca swallowed, tried to speak and uttered instead a strangled croak. Fate was being every bit as unkind as she had feared! He had not yet recognised her, but if he did…

‘What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?’ The gentleman pulled her towards him and, before she could stop him, was running his hands over her arms and legs. ‘Yes, you’re quite sound,’ he said, drawing a large handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his fingers fastidiously on it. ‘So stop shamming—there are no more sixpences, Mary, or whatever your name is. Nothing more to be got out of me, until you tell me where Witham Court is.’ His movements had been impersonal—rather as if he were feeling the legs of a horse—but Francesca’s face flamed and she was seized with a sudden access of rage.

‘You can keep your money,’ she said, pushing her hat back from her face, and glaring at him. ‘An abject apology would be more in line, though I doubt it will be forthcoming. The last thing any of us expect is decent behaviour from the owner of Witham Court, or his guests.’

His eyes narrowed, then he said slowly, ‘I appear to have made a mistake. I took you for one of the village girls.’ He eyed her shabby dress and bonnet. ‘Understandably, perhaps. But—’ he eyed her uncertainly again ‘—it can’t be. Yet now I look…we’ve met before, haven’t we?’

‘Yes,’ said Francesca stonily, wishing she could lie.

‘Of course! You were wet then, too…we both were. Why, yes! How could I have forgotten that glorious figure…?’

He laughed when Francesca gave an involuntary gasp of indignation and then pulled himself together and looked rueful. ‘I’m deeply sorry—that slipped out. I do beg your pardon, ma’am. Abjectly.’

Francesca was unreconciled. He didn’t sound abject. ‘The details of our previous acquaintance are best forgotten, sir. All of them. And if you offer me an apology, it surely ought to be for knocking me into the ditch.’

‘We did not knock you into the ditch. You jumped and fell. No, I was apologising for not recognising you.’ He regarded the wet and bedraggled creature before him. ‘Not even for a gentlewoman. As for our previous meeting—it shall be erased from my mind, as requested. A pity, though. Some details have been a most pleasant memory.’ He raised a quizzical eyebrow.

How dared he remind her of such an unfortunate and embarrassing interlude! Had he no shame? Of course he hadn’t! He was a rake and a villain, and she was a fool to be affected by him.

‘You surprise me,’ she said acidly. ‘But are you suggesting you would not have practically run me down if you had realised I wasn’t one of the villagers? What a very strange notion of chivalry you have to be sure! As if it mattered who or what I was!’

‘Forgive me, but I did not practically run you down. My nephew, who is a trifle high-spirited, gave us all an uncomfortable time, including my horses, in his efforts to prove himself a notable whip. I shall deal with him presently. But allow me to say that you were standing like a moonling on that road. You must have heard us coming?’

‘I thought it was thunder—You’re doing it again! How rude you are to call me a moonling!’

‘It wasn’t your good sense that attracted me all those years ago, Francesca! And standing in the middle of a highway is hardly the action of a rational being. Nor is it rational now to stand arguing about a trifle when you should be hastening to change out of your wet clothes.’

The justice of this remark did not endear the gentleman to Francesca. She was about to make a scathing reply when they were interrupted.

‘Marcus, darling! Have you taken
root
, or something? We shall be caught in the storm if you don’t hurry.’

The speaker was picking her way delicately along the road, holding up the skirts of an exquisite gown in green taffeta, her face shaded by a black hat with a huge brim. As a travelling costume it was hardly suitable, the hat a trifle too large, the dress a touch too low cut, but Francesca had never seen anything so stylish in her life. Under the hat were wisps of black hair, dark eyes, red lips, a magnolia skin with a delicate rose in the cheeks—an arrestingly vivid face. But at the moment an expression of dissatisfaction marred its perfection, and the voice was petulant.

‘I’m not coming any further—the road is quite
dreadful
—but do make haste. What is the delay?’ The dark eyes turned to Francesca. ‘Good Lord! What a
filthy
mess! What on
earth
is it?’ She stared for a moment, then turned to the man. ‘Really, Marcus, why are you wasting time on such a wretch? Pay her off and come back to the coach. And
do
hurry. I shall wait with Nick. No, don’t say another
word
—I refuse to listen. Don’t forget to get her to tell you the way—if she knows it,’ she added, looking at Francesca again with disdain.

‘You mistake the matter, Charmian. Miss Shelwood’s accident has misled you into thinking she is one of the country folk. In fact, her family own much of the land in the district.’

‘Really?’ The dark eyes looked again at the shabby dress. ‘How very odd! Don’t be long, Marcus.’ Then the vision turned round and picked her way back to the carriage.

Francesca felt her face burn under its streaks of mud. She was well used to snubs from her aunt, but this was different—and from such a woman!

The gentleman tightened his lips, then said gently, ‘You must forgive Lady Forrest. She is hot and tired—Nick’s driving is not a comfortable experience.’

‘So I have observed,’ said Francesca. ‘I am
sure
the lady has had a quite
dreadful
time of it.
Pray
convey my sympathy to her—my
abject
sympathy.’

He acknowledged this sally with a nod, but said nothing. Then he appeared to come to a decision. ‘You must allow us to take you home. Shelwood Manor, is it not?’

‘Are you mad?’

‘I fail to see why Lady Forrest’s manners, or the condition of your clothes, should prevent me from doing my clear duty. No, I am not mad.’

‘My concern is neither for Lady Forrest nor for the state of your carriage! I can perfectly well walk home—indeed, I insist on doing so. To be frank, sir, I would not go with you in your carriage to Shelwood, nor to Witham, nor anywhere else, not even to the end of the lane! I am surprised you should suggest it. Have you forgotten the circumstances of our previous acquaintance?’

‘Why, yes, of course!’

Francesca, the wind taken somewhat out of her sails, stared at him.

‘I thought that would please you. You said you wished me to forget the lot,’ he said earnestly.

Francesca pressed her lips together firmly. He would not make her laugh, she would not let him—that was how it had all started last time. She said coldly, ‘I suggest you rejoin your friends—they will not wish to miss any of the…pleasures Witham Court has to offer.’

‘Of course—you know about those, don’t you?’ he asked with a mocking smile.

‘Only by hearsay, sir. And a brief and unwelcome acquaintance with one of its visiting rakes some years ago.’

‘You didn’t seem to find the acquaintance so unwelcome then, my dear.’

Francesca’s face flamed again. She said curtly, ‘I was very young and very foolish. I knew no better.’ She started to walk along the road. ‘I suggest you turn the carriage in the large drive about a hundred yards ahead and go back to the village.
The road you should have taken is the first on the left. This one does lead to Witham Court, but it is narrow and uneven and would need expert driving.’

‘You don’t think I can do it?’ he asked, falling into step beside her.

‘Nothing I have seen so far would lead me to think so. Good day, sir.’

‘Very well. I shall take your advice—my horses have suffered enough today, and this road surface is appalling.’ He took a step, halted and turned to her. ‘You are sure there’s nothing I can do for you?’

‘I think you’ve done enough! Now, for heaven’s sake, leave me in peace!’

The gentleman looked astonished at the violence in Francesca’s voice. And in truth she had surprised herself. Such outbursts were rare. The child’s impulsively passionate nature had over the years been subdued under her aunt’s repressive influence. Nowadays, she exercised a great deal of self-discipline, and Miss Fanny’s air of calm dignity, of lack of emotion—a defence against the constant slights she was subjected to at the Manor—was no longer totally assumed.

But this man had a talent, it seemed, for reaching that other Francesca of long ago. She must regain control of her emotions—she must! The little interlude years before had meant very little to him, that was obvious, or he would not now be able to refer to it in such a light-hearted manner. She must not let him even suspect the profound effect it had had on her. She would apologise for her outburst in a civilised manner, then bid him farewell.

But he forestalled her. The teasing look had quite vanished from his eyes as he said, ‘Forgive me. I did not mean to offend you.’

Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and strode back to the chaise. Francesca found herself hoping he
would trip on one of the stones that had been washed loose by the previous night’s storm. She would enjoy seeing that confident dignity measure its length in the dust. But, of course, it didn’t happen. Instead, he got into the chaise and exchanged some words with the young man who had remained with the horses.

There was a slight altercation which ended when the young man—his nephew, she supposed—got down and strode on up the lane. A few minutes later, the chaise passed on its way back to the village, the driver giving her exaggerated clearance and an ironical salute of the whip as he went.

L
ady Forrest saw the incident and felt a little spurt of irritation. Marcus was impossible—acknowledging a wretch like the girl on the road! Of course, he was just doing it to annoy her. He hadn’t wanted to come to Charlie Witham’s—it was not the sort of gathering he enjoyed and all her wiles had at first failed to persuade him to accept the invitation. But she had won in the end! And now he was showing his displeasure by teasing her.

‘Are you so very displeased, Marcus?’ she asked, looking at him sideways as the carriage turned into the village street.

He negotiated the tight left turn before replying. ‘About Nick’s driving? Not any more. Nor do you need to suffer any disquiet about him, either. By the time he’s found his way to the Court, he’ll have got over his fit of temper.’

Lady Forrest had forgotten Nick. ‘That’s not what I meant. You didn’t want to come to Charlie’s, when I first mentioned it. Are you regretting having changed your mind?’

‘Not at all. You produced a master card and played it.’ When she raised her eyebrows, and feigned surprise, he went on, ‘Come, Charmian. You don’t usually underestimate my intelligence so badly. You are quite ruthless in pursuing your
wishes. When it became obvious I had no intention of escorting you to Witham Court, you beguiled Nick into performing the office. You counted on the fact that, although my nephew’s capacity for getting into trouble seems to be infinite, I am fond of him. You knew that I was most unlikely to abandon him to the mercies of Charlie Witham’s rapacious cronies.’

He looked at her with the quizzical smile she always found irresistible. ‘But tell me, what would you have done if I had called your bluff? It would hardly have enhanced your reputation to arrive at Witham Court in the company of a lad half your age.’

The smile, then the rapier. He could be a cruel devil when he chose! Lady Forrest coloured angrily. ‘You exaggerate, Marcus. In any case, the question did not arise. You have come—as I knew you would.’ She changed her tone. ‘Now, be kind. You have had your fun pretending to be concerned over that creature on the road, and attempting to introduce her—’

‘You were quite ruthless there, too. Did you have to give the girl such a snub?’

‘Why are you so concerned? If she were pretty I could understand it, but she is quite remarkably plain!’

‘Plain? How can you say so?’

‘Stop making fun of me, Marcus. Of course she is plain. Too tall, too bony, too sallow, a hard mouth—Really!’

‘Her mouth is not hard, it is disciplined. And I suppose the streaks of dirt on her face disguised from you the loveliest line of cheekbone and jaw I think I have ever seen.’ When Lady Forrest regarded him with astonishment, he added, ‘Oh, she is not your conventional Society beauty, I agree. She lacks the rosebud mouth, the empty blue eyes, the dimpled cheeks. Her conversation is less vapid, too. But plain she will never be—not even when she is old. The exquisite bone structure will still be there.’

‘Good Lord! This is news, indeed! What a sly fellow you are after all, my dear! When are we to congratulate you?’ He gave her an ironic look, but refused to rise to her bait. She went on, ‘Perhaps you will allow me to lend the girl a dress for the wedding? I can hardly think she owns anything suitable—nor, from the look of her, any dowry, either. Still, you hardly need that, now.’

There was a short silence and she wondered whether she had gone too far. Then he said calmly, ‘Don’t talk nonsense, my dear. I can admire beauty wherever I find it—I don’t necessarily wish to possess it! Thank God—here are the gates. I suppose it is too much to hope that Charlie Witham has learned moderation since I was last here. So I warn you, you will have me to reckon with if you lead Nick into trouble, or make him miserable. My nephew is the apple of my sister’s eye, God knows why!’

They were received warmly by their host, who could hardly believe his good fortune in snaring one of London’s most elusive bachelors as a guest. Marcus Carne tended to move in circles of Society that Lord Witham and his friends, who would never have been admitted to them, apostrophised as devilish dull, riddled as they were with clever johnnies—academics, politicians, reformers and the like! But they found Carne himself perfectly sound. In fact, they termed him a Nonpareil.

He belonged to all the right clubs, was a first-class, if rather ruthless, cardplayer, and could hold his wine with the best of them. His skill with horses was legendary, and his life as an officer under Wellington had provided him with a fund of good stories, though he never bored his company with talk of the battles.

And, though he was what was generally called ‘a proper man’s man’, he was equally popular with the ladies—not only with the frail beauties such as Charmian Forrest, who lived on the fringes of society, but with perfectly respectable
dowagers and debutantes, too. His good looks and lazy smile, his air of knowing what he was about—such things appealed to the ladies, of course.

And he had another virtue that even outclassed his looks, his charm, his manliness, his straight dealing and all the rest. Marcus Carne was quite disgustingly rich. Once his cousin Jack fell at Waterloo, it was inevitable that Marcus would inherit the Carne title—his uncle had, after all, been in his seventies when his only remaining son was killed. But who would have thought that old Lord Carne would have amassed such a fortune to leave to his nephew—especially as Jack and his brothers had, in the short time allotted to them, done their best to disperse it!

However, Marcus was a different kettle of fish altogether from his wayward cousins. Though frequently invited, he was seldom seen at the sort of gathering Lord Witham enjoyed. And though he was not afraid to wager large sums at the gambling table, he had a regrettable tendency to win. In spite of this, however, his reputation was such that he was welcomed wherever he went.

So Lord Witham paid Marcus the compliment of conducting him personally to one of the best bedchambers, indicating with a wink that Charmian was lodged close by. Marcus waited patiently till his host had finished listing the delights in store and had gone to see to his other guests, then he summoned his valet, who had arrived with the valises some time before, and changed.

Suter busied himself discreetly about the room, obviously expecting his master to go down to join the company. But Marcus was in no hurry to meet the ramshackle bunch Charlie Witham had undoubtedly assembled for several days of cards and drinking. Instead, he went over to the window, which overlooked the park behind the Court.

It was nine years since he had last been at Witham. At that
time there had still been three cousins available to inherit their father’s title. He himself had been an impecunious junior officer on leave, with no expectations except through promotion on the battlefield. His room then had been much less imposing—what else would he have expected? The view from its window had been the same, though. And the signs of neglect and decay, which even then had been evident, were now greater than ever. He wondered if that bridge had ever been repaired…Probably not. Nine years…

Nine years ago Francesca Shelwood had, for a brief while, filled his thoughts to the exclusion of everything else. Curious how one could forget something which had been so important at the time. Seeing the girl again had brought the memories back, memories which had been swamped under the horrors of the campaigns he had fought, and the turmoil and sea-change in his fortunes which had followed.

He had never expected to succeed his uncle. But first Maurice and Ralph, Lord Carne’s twin elder sons, had both been killed in a coaching accident, then Jack had fallen at Waterloo. Lord Carne himself had followed them soon afterwards, and Marcus had, against all the odds, succeeded to the title.

Francesca had changed surprisingly little. How well he now remembered that intriguing surface air of discipline, the tight control of her mouth and face, which might lead the uninitiated to believe her dull—hard, even. He knew better. The real Francesca’s feelings could suddenly blow up in rage, or melt in passion…His blood quickened even now at the memory of her total response to his kisses.

How absurd! Nine years of living in the world, three of them as a very rich man, had provided many more sophisticated affairs. None had been permanent, but few had lasted for as short a time as one day—yet he remembered none of them with half as much pleasure. How could he have forgotten?

From the first moment, he and Francesca had felt no constraint in one other’s company. Their initial encounter had effectively done away with the barrier she customarily put up to protect herself from the rest of the world. It was difficult to retain an air of cool reserve when you have just sent a perfect stranger flying into the river! But he rather thought that, even without that sensational beginning, he would have found the real Francesca. From the first he had had a strange feeling of kinship with her that he was sure she had felt, too.

He pulled a chair up to the window and sat down, his eyes fixed on the untended lawns of Witham Court without seeing them. The years faded away and what he saw was the sun, glinting through the leafy branches of the trees down on to the stream which formed the boundary between the Witham and Shelwood lands. He had come with his cousin Jack—he would never in those days have been invited for himself. Jack’s father had begged Marcus to go with his son, for the play there was deep, and Jack a compulsive gambler. It hadn’t worked.

Heedless of Marcus’s attempts to restrain him, Jack had wagered vast sums, more than he possessed, and had lost to everyone, even including his cousin. After a disastrous night of yet more hard drinking and gambling Jack, quite unable to honour his debts, and mindful of his father’s words the last time he had asked for more money, had attempted to shoot himself—a dramatic gesture, which his cousin and friends had fortunately frustrated.

Marcus smiled wryly. Jack had survived the attempt to take his own life, but it hadn’t done him much good. Just a few years later he had fallen at Waterloo along with so many other, better men. Marcus blanked out the thought of Waterloo—the memory of that carnage was best forgotten. He got up and went to the door.

‘There you are, Marcus! I was just about to send someone to look for you. Charlie’s waiting for us.’

Marcus suppressed a sigh, then smiled. ‘How charmingly you look, Charmian. That dress is particularly becoming. Do you know where Nick is?’

Later that night, when the company was relaxing over an excellent supper, he was reminded again of Francesca. Charmian brought up the incident on the road that afternoon.

‘And then we met this
scarecrow
of a girl! Nick pushed her into the ditch, and I swear it seemed the best place for her!’

She looked magnificent in a wine-red silk dress, her black hair piled high and caught with a diamond aigrette given to her by Marcus in the heyday of their relationship. An impressive array of other jewels—trophies from her many admirers—flashed about her person, but they glittered no more brightly than her dark eyes. She was in her element, flirting with Marcus, making the others laugh with her wicked comments on London life, and teasing a besotted Nick about his driving, laughing at him over her fan.

Nick flushed and muttered, ‘The horses were scared of the thunder. And she just stood there. I didn’t know what to do.’

‘Oh, but, Nick darling, you were
marvellous
, I swear! Then Marcus got down and went to see what had happened—the wretched girl had vanished. Just the odd boot waving in the air,
covered
in mud. Pure rustic farce. Marcus insisted on going to see if she was all right, and of course she was, once he’d pulled her out. But what a
sight
! There she stood, draped in mud and weeds, a quiz of a sunbonnet stuck on her head. But Marcus seemed quite taken with her. I began to think he had fallen in love at first sight with this farmyard beauty.’ She paused dramatically. ‘I was almost jealous!’

There were shouts of disbelief and laughter and Charmian smiled like a satisfied cat. ‘But I haven’t finished yet—you must hear this—it beats all the rest. She wasn’t a village girl
at all, it seems. Marcus said she owned most of the land round about. A positive
heiress
in disguise, looking for a prince. So which of you is going to rescue her, muddy boots and all?’

Marcus walked over to the side and helped himself to more wine. He said nothing.

‘I wager it was Fanny Shelwood,’ said Lord Witham.

‘Shelwood?’ said one of the others. ‘Of Shelwood Manor?’

‘Yes—her mother was Verity Shelwood. Now, ask me who her father was…No? I’ll tell you. Richard Beaudon.’ There was a significant pause. ‘D’you see? The girl was sired by Richard Beaudon, but her name is Shelwood. Not Beaudon. Adopted by her grandfather. You follow me?’

Having ensured by sundry nods and winks that his guests had indeed followed, Lord Witham went on in malicious enjoyment, ‘I don’t suppose many of you know about the Shelwoods. They keep quieter now than they used. But when the old fellow was alive, he was always boring on about the company I invited down here. As if it was any of his business! A bunch of killjoys, the Shelwoods. I told him more than once—a chap can have a few friends in his own house if he wants, can’t he? Have a bit of fun?

‘But Sir John never liked me—a real holier-than-thou johnny, he was. And then—’he started to grin ‘—and then old Sir Piety’s daughter kicks over the traces with Rake Beaudon, and runs off to the West Indies with him. All without benefit of clergy.’